


The London Assassination

by Soquilii9



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Laura</p>
<p>Dedicated to Haldenlane</p>
<p>It's been ten years since Eliot gave Laura a new life.  What controls destiny?  Fate?  Karma?  Dumb Luck?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haldenlane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldenlane/gifts).



The phone call must have been disturbing, judging by the look on her face. Nate poured himself a drink, surreptitiously watching Sophie as she quietly replaced the receiver.

‘Bad news?’ he ventured.

She nodded. ‘The worst.’

She said nothing else. He poured her a drink, patiently waiting. She would tell him in her own good time.

Tearfully, she finally did, after which he suggested she go upstairs and rest. Then he called in the rest of the team. They arrived, grumbling, later that afternoon. In the usual fashion, popcorn, orange soda and beer magically appeared. No one could plot and plan on an empty stomach. Nate, pouring yet another drink, fully understood this.

'We're not, uh, reviewing a job this evening, gang,' he began.

'Then what are we _here_ for?' Parker squeaked irritably, with a glance toward Hardison.

' _Nate._ Parker and I, we...well, we were...well, let's just say we had _plans_.' Hardison bugged his eyes at Parker.

'And I had _center row seats_ to a hockey game, man!!' Eliot blurted, gesturing with upraised, cupped hands. 'With a… _a redhead!_ And I get this phone call and have to stand her up!'

'I'm sure she'll survive, Eliot; she may even call you back.’ Nate glanced back at the wall of blank computer screens. ‘What I have to say to you all is...' 

He tipped the glass to his lips. 

'Is _what_ , Nate?' Parker asked. 

'Well, you know, we’re a family of sorts, and as such, we try to support each other. Wouldn't you agree?'

'Well, sure, Nate,' Hardison said. The mood had changed somehow; they all felt it. 'What's wrong?'

'It's Sophie's Aunt Emily. She...she passed...yesterday, quite suddenly. And...well...as you may or may not know, that was her last relative. Sophie's...well, she’s understandably upset. She’s all alone now.'

'Except for _us_ ,' Parker noted, emphatically.

'That's right, Parker. She has us. Now...the funeral is scheduled in two days and we're all going to London to pay our respects. My tab. So start packing.'


	2. Sophie's Dilemma

In a centuries-old cemetery, under large umbrellas shielding them from a cold rain, Nate, Hardison, Parker and Eliot joined with Sophie to bid her aunt a fond farewell. A few of the old lady’s friends and neighbors were in attendance. The local vicar intoned the last blessing and it was over. The hired limo took them back to the old home.

Bridgette had been Aunt Emily’s maid for decades. She welcomed them back in true British fashion, directing them to a warm fire and fussing over their wet coats and shoes. She soon brought tea and biscuits on a tray. Eliot looked askance at the tray and politely asked, winking, if she had any beer. Brigitte, despite her maid’s uniform and air of propriety, winked back at him. She left the room and returned with an ice-cold bottle. He smiled gratefully.

‘I want to thank you all for making this effort for me,’ said Sophie, dabbing at her eyes. ‘It meant so much to have you all there.’

‘What will you do now?’ Nate asked. ‘I mean about the house. Don’t you still have your own flat here in London?’

'Yes...I suppose I won't need two now. Oh, there's so much to do! There's the reading of the will, liquidating everything...I mean, the house is...packed. Auntie saved everything and then bought more!'

'Why not just sell the flat and keep this?' asked Parker. It's bigger. It's homey. I _like_ it.' Parker was going from item to item, lifting and replacing various antiques, vases and statuary; looking beneath them to check their origin and value. Sophie's eyes followed her nervously.

'Parker,' said Nate.

'What?'

He shook his head at her.

'Oh.'

Parker took her place by Hardison. She glanced at Sophie. ' _Sorry._ '

'Actually, Parker,' Sophie said, 'You, you make a good argument. All I have at the flat are a few clothes...'

'I could help you get them. You could do the rest online...or by mail, if you had to. You could be like those rich people you read about...' Parker held up an imaginary newspaper and read an imaginary line. ' _Miss Devereaux has retreated to her London home to rest for the season._ '

'Anyone care to know what I think?' asked the Mastermind. 'I think this isn't the time for decisions,' he opined.

'We gon' be here for a few days, anyway, ain't we?' Hardison asked. 'Why not just kick it around, Sophie? We'll be here.'

'That might be best, Hardison,' she replied.

'Meanwhile,' Hardison continued, 'I have a plan.'

 

~~~~~

 

Desmond Noonan of the Manchester, England ‘Crime Firm,’ as it was known, had at one time numbered among his worldwide connections, friend and foe, one foe in particular: Damien Moreau. Moreau had long ago hired an assassin to kill Noonan’s brother and partner Dominic over a drugs-for-guns deal gone sour.

When Noonan got word that Moreau was now rotting in the tombs of San Lorenzo, untouchable, he felt it a fitting end, if not the type of revenge he had hoped for. If he couldn’t have the boss, he wanted the assassin. To this end, and for years, he had kept intel on him. His London office at last sent to Manchester the information he had been waiting for. 

His nemesis was in town.


	3. Dinner Plans Disrupted

Sophie excused herself and went upstairs to freshen up for dinner. In the kitchen, Bridgette was busily preparing her usual nutritious, rather bland fare. Sport she might be, but she wasn’t accustomed to the appetites of men. Aromas wafting from the kitchen reached Hardison’s nose. His stomach hitched and rumbled all at the same time.

‘Hey, uh, Nate.’

Nate was lost in thought. ‘Hm?’

‘Uh, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But, uh…I can’t take any more tea and crumpets, man, or…I mean, even the mention of steak-and-kidney pie is just…’ Hardison put his hand over his mouth, afraid he would hurl. ‘I’m hungry…for real food,’ he said quietly, for Bridgette’s sake. ‘Funerals always affect me like this.’

‘They do, huh?’ said Nate with a straight face.

‘Yeah, uh, so, we’re gonna go out for a steak…w’french fries…ketchup…’ Hardison picked up his phone.

Parker snuggled up to Hardison. ‘That’s your plan, huh?’

‘Sho’ is,’ he said. ‘Watch me work, woman.’ Hardison tapped his phone, calling a cab. 'It's cold - go get your coat. You wanna come with us, Nate?’

‘No…you guys go on. Good luck finding _that_ menu in London, by the way. Ride around, see a little of the city. Have some fun. I’ll stay with Sophie.’

Eliot came out of the bathroom. He’d tied his hair back, his idea of dressing for dinner.

‘Come on, Eliot…we're gonna go out to eat,’ said Hardison. He tossed Eliot's leather jacket to him, grabbed his own, took Parker by the hand and guided her out the door and down the walkway. Eliot followed, willingly. He’d had enough of the stuffy atmosphere, himself. 

'Ya'll ain't goin' for fish & chips, are ya?'

‘Hell, no, I’m finding me a steakhouse.’

‘I like fish & chips!’ Parker protested.

‘You like… Woman, you don’t know what’s good...fish & chips? _Junk food._ French-fried salt’s all it is.’

The cabbie pulled up, honking. Hardison waited for Parker to get in and turned to find Eliot lagging behind, tapping his phone. 'Eliot? You comin'?’

‘Somethin’ I want to do first. Where ya’ll headed?’

‘Goodman Mayfair. Best steaks in town.’

‘I might meet'cha there later. If I don't show...don't wait.’

Hardison smiled knowingly and got in the cab.

‘I want fish & chips!’ Parker whined as soon as the door shut.

‘Well maybe you can ask the waiter for a side dish! _Woman…_ ’

~~~~~

Eliot spoke into the phone. The stewardess he'd met on the flight over had given him her number and was more than willing to change her plans to see him. He hailed another cab going in the opposite direction. If she wanted dinner, fine. If not...well, Hardison wasn't the only one who had a plan...

Eliot, normally paranoid and observant but anticipating an evening of pleasure, dropped his guard. He didn't see the car following him.

~~~~~

The cabbie let Eliot off in an older section of the city. Here were small apartments and narrow streets. He walked up one side of the street and down the other, searching for her flat. No luck. He redialed the phone. Thus distracted, he didn't see the car coming directly at him. It struck him a glancing blow, knocking him off his feet. In seconds he was yanked into the car and thrown to the floorboard. Cable ties were swiftly strapped around his wrists and ankles; duct tape went across his mouth.

A cup of cold coffee, courtesy of Desmond Noonan, splashed across Eliot’s face, waking him from his stupor. The bitter liquid stung his eyes; he raised his hands to wipe it away. They were numb from the nylon strap; his feet were headed in the same direction. He didn't have a clue as to the identity of the man facing him across the desk. Maybe he'd find out in the next few minutes. He mopped his face with the sleeve of his crooked elbow and waited.

The man’s voice was deceptively smooth; courteous. 'Welcome back, Spencer. I wanted to have a talk with you before we get down to business. You know why I called you here, don’t you?'

'I don’t remember being _called_ anywhere – just nabbed. And I don't have a _fucking clue_ who you are,' he growled.

'Oh? Oh, that's right...my apologies. It’s just that some of those you were hired to assassinate have relatives. That’s what I am. A relative. You remember, perhaps, what was it, 15 or 16 years ago, Damien Moreau hired you to kill my brother?'

'Damien Moreau hired me to kill a lot of people.'

'So I heard. Did none of them every come after you?'

'I have a price on my head in about three countries. Plus a fatwa, from what I hear.'

'You’re a much-sought-after man.'

'Doesn't keep me up nights.'

_'It should.'_ The man's eyes were like cold, black marbles. Eliot knew trouble when he saw it. He’d have to fight, which was fine with him. He just needed an opportunity. They weren’t going to dispatch him here, he knew. He’d be taken somewhere else. Somewhere private. Somewhere dark. 

After night fell…


	4. Missing

Sleeping in on a cold morning was such a luxury, especially with Sophie beside him. Nate snuggled closer to her warmth and burrowed his head into the pillow. The level of light on the curtained window told him it was nearly noon. What the hell. Bridgette had the decency to keep breakfast warm, if not fresh...or maybe that should be lunch...anyway, he wasn't ready to arise just yet. _Not in that way, anyway,_ he smiled to himself. Sophie was known for her penchant for a little morning delight. He sighed contentedly. Then he cursed in the same breath. His cell phone jangled the mood away.

It was Hardison, already turning his day sour. 'Nate, I-I got bad news…Eliot's gone missing.’

Nate turned away from Sophie so not to disturb her. ‘Nobody goes missing for less than a day, Hardison. You know Eliot. _I_ know Eliot.' He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'He's with some dame somewhere.’ 

‘No, Nate, his cell is always on and GPS tracks him. Tracks all of us. Hell, I can tell you right now where you and Sophie...' Hardison quickly changed the subject. 'I designed it that way, considering some of the people we come in contact with. What I'm saying is it's like he's dropped off the planet.’

‘Well, when did you last see him?!’

‘He was maybe gonna meet me and Parker for dinner, but he never showed. His phone cut out about the time we were having dinner. I have the coordinates at least. We should have been wearing our earbuds,’ Hardison chastised himself.

‘Well, Hardison, we weren't exactly on a job…’

‘What do we do, Nate?’

‘We do what we normally _wouldn’t_ do. We call the police.’

~~~~~

Good thing they threw him in the trunk. He had a shot at getting those damned cable ties off. With the right leverage they could be snapped, and with the screwdriver he found beneath his feet, he had an advantage. Eliot twisted the screwdriver into the one on his feet and popped it. Then with sheer strength and determination he broke the one binding his wrists. Hurt like hell, but better than trying to fight with tied hands. He'd done that before and didn't care to repeat it. 

Yanking the tape off his mouth, he waited. He was unfamiliar with London but the sound of the traffic told a good story, that and the smells he could distinguish apart from the car exhaust. Breathing that was gonna make him sick before long. The car was headed toward the riverfront. It was getting onto midnight by now; there were plenty of places in that area to dispatch him where they wouldn’t be seen…or even heard. The car was slowing. He felt around for a tire iron but except for the screwdriver, the trunk was empty. He lodged it beneath his armpit and waited.

The car stopped; three doors slammed shut. The trunk popped open. He was right; he could smell the Thames; diesel, fish, hemp and other odors associated with the docks. He let them grab him and pull him from the trunk. Gripping the screwdriver, Eliot used surprise to his advantage, sending it through the jugular of one of the three men sent to kill him. Blood sprayed; the body dropped. That left two.

‘Damn it, how’d he get loose?' the larger man yelled.

'Never mind, _finish him!_ '

Eliot remembered the big man from the car that hit him, smashing his phone in the process. The smaller one was backing away; he initially took that move for cowardice.

_Your turn’s coming, shrimp,_ Eliot thought. He bounced on the balls of his feet, ready. The bigger one had nothing but his fists and a bad attitude; Eliot could easily match that. They traded blows for several minutes; Eliot giving more than he was getting. The henchman didn’t take into account the skill of his opponent. Fists, feet and elbows were coming at him faster than he could block; he was in over his head but refused to go down. Eliot was punching and kicking, pushing him back along the platform, close to the river. If he couldn’t take the brute down, he‘d send him over the edge.

Out of the corner of his eye Eliot saw the smaller man returning, now waving what looked like a .38 in his hand. Eliot drove his heel into the larger man’s ribs, breaking two of them. Before he could drop into a crouch to dodge being shot, the larger man, despite his injury, clamped both arms down on Eliot’s foot and ankle, trapping him. The next instant, while Eliot struggled to break free, the second man fired. The .38 tore through the back of Eliot’s thigh, exiting the front. The big man went down, taking Eliot with him, precariously close to the edge of the loading dock. Eliot ignored the wound and shook himself free. Struggling to regain his feet, he was suddenly face to face with his attacker. Eliot used the last split second to shift his body to the left in an attempt to avoid the bullet he knew was coming. He had just enough time to glare balefully at the man before two more shots rang out. 

Eliot pitched headlong into the Thames.

‘Did you get the bastard?’ the larger man wheezed, one arm held against the broken ribs. He was gasping for air.

‘I got him. He’s fish food. C’mon, mate…Desmond’s Molly’ll fix you right up.’


	5. Fighting for Survival

Sophie and Nate waited nervously at the police station. 'I'm sure there's an explanation, Nate. No need for alarm just yet.'

'Sophie, for somebody like Eliot, I'd say this was pretty serious...' He broke off as a youthful sergeant approached them.

‘Follow me, please,’ he said politely.

They complied, walking swiftly down a long hall. He held the door for them to enter his office. Sophie wasted no time. 'We want to file a missing persons report,' she said quickly.

' _Now_ who's alarmed?' Nate leaned in and whispered, _sotto voce_.

'We both are, and you know it,' she whispered back. 

'Have a seat,' said the officer. 'I'll take some preliminary information.' He looked up at them. 'Name of the person missing?'

'Eliot Spencer,' Sophie supplied.

‘He's an American,’ Nate interjected. 'So am I. Sophie, here, she was born in London.'

'Relative of either of you?'

'Friend. Close friend.'

'When did you last see Mr. Spencer and how long has he been missing?'

'Since yesterday afternoon, about five or five-thirty…it was right after a funeral we attended; he and some friends were going to dinner,' said Sophie. She handed the officer a piece of paper with Eliot's last known street location. Nate didn't think it wise to clue the police in on their specialized GPS equipment. Hardison had already scoped the area and picked up the remnants of Eliot's shattered phone, from which he'd been unable to retrieve any information. He had found no other evidence and no one had seen Eliot or remembered him.

'Pardon me, officer,' Nate broke in, 'I know he hasn't been missing 24 hours yet but-'

'In this country, sir, we don't wait 24 hours. We move on it.'

'That’s…that’s good,’ Nate said with relief.

'Do you have a photo of Mr. Spencer?'

'Here's one,’ said Sophie, producing a small likeness from her bag.

'Now…did he have any other friends or relatives in this country?' the sergeant inquired.

'N-no, only us...he didn't even know Aunt Emily, really...’

Nate’s memory stirred. 'What about that girl...remember...what was her name? The one we sent to live with Emily. Long time ago.’

‘Oh, you mean Laura? My word, I haven't heard from her in...nearly ten years. Emily hadn't mentioned her for a long time.’

‘Not much to go on here,’ the sergeant observed. ‘Normally, when someone goes missing abroad, it's best to contact your own local police, who will then contact the force in the relevant country through Interpol. In this case, however...'

'If you don't mind...officer...I don't think there's any need to involve Interpol...just yet. Let's see what the local police force can do,' Nate said. Under the table, Sophie squeezed his hand in understanding. No way were they going to risk alerting Jim Sterling.

'As you wish, sir. Let's continue. Did this Mr. Spencer have any enemies?’

Nate and Sophie looked at each other. Considering what little they knew of Eliot’s past, one thing was crystal clear: there were enemies...in abundance...in practically every country in the world...

‘Uh...that’s a tough one, officer…’

~~~~~

Eliot fought to the surface of the cold, murky water and painfully rolled onto his back, floating. The cold was beneficial to a degree in lessening the pain of three gunshot wounds, but at the same time he knew it put him at risk from hypothermia. Each breath was visible in the faint moonlight as the swift current carried him downstream. Both banks of the river presented barriers; here at the docks inaccessible walls of iron were built along the banks for ships and barges; impossible for him to breach. All along the river it was dark and still - no voices, nothing but the wind in his ears and the hum of the current. The old radio code for _request assistance_ came to mind... _10-30...10-30...without a radio, just a useless memory..._

Something floating nearby collided with him, initially sending him under. Weakly, he floundered to the surface, put out his good arm and grabbed what turned out to be the remnant of a medium-sized tree stump, now nothing but a forked log. It was short, stable in the water and large enough to support his weight. At this juncture, any assistance was welcome. He locked his arm around it, laid his head in the crook of the fork and let the old tree carry him on the current as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The river carried him on downstream, swirling and turning him in the eddies. The tree kept his head above water. Further on, the river flowed north, away from the docks; here were sloped banks leading up to residential developments, piers for private boats, waterfront flats and a few homes. The current swirled the tree, carrying Eliot with it, into a vortex which deposited him near a boat ramp beside a pier. In the shallower water, Eliot’s boots, then knees scraped along the sloping concrete, anchoring the tree with him clinging to it. The water lapped at his inert form.


	6. Not the Damned Hospital

Dr. Beckett, a physician’s assistant in the small but nobly named Queen Elizabeth Hospital, breathed a sigh of relief. Her shift had ended at midnight and she could look forward to several weeks' leave during which she planned to do a great deal of fishing and relaxing on her large boat. Despite the late hour, she was determined to be on the water early the next day. On her way home, she impulsively decided to stop by the marina to ensure that the dock master had fueled it for the morning.

She unlocked the security gate, parked her car and walked toward the well-lit pier. The boat ramp sloped steeply down into the water to the left of it. As she walked past it, unmistakable coughing and choking from some unseen person could be heard. Alarmed, she stepped up onto the pier and leaned over the rail to get a better look.

A dark form was crawling out of the water, coughing, struggling painfully to get up the incline which was slick with algae. The instincts of a physician overrode her fear and she hurried back down the pier and made her way carefully down the boat ramp. The figure collapsed and lay still. Illuminated by the lights, she could see that it was a man, probably early 40s, clothed in jeans and a black leather jacket. Long brown hair was matted with debris from the river. She placed two fingers on a pulse point. Suddenly, a cold hand snaked out and clamped down on her wrist, startling her.

She jerked her hand out of his grip and drew back. With great effort, the man raised his head. In the glow of the pier lights, there was something vaguely familiar about his features.

‘Need some help,’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘What in hell happened to you? Listen, I’m a doctor. I’ll call an ambulance.’

' _No!_ ' he insisted gruffly, shaking his head. 'No...amb...I don't... _and no damned hosp-_!' He grunted in pain.

His voice seemed familiar, too. That low, graveled rasp...he sounded American. She'd never completely erased her own accent despite years in London, far from the places she once knew. Where had she heard that voice before?

The pier light illuminated a thin trail of blood flowing down into the river. This man needed help _now_. To hell with the ambulance; she'd take him to the hospital herself; what he wanted was irrelevant. In the ER, she’d stay to assess, treat, and let another doctor take the case. _Just a delay, Beckett, not a cancellation. Just a delay,_ she sighed to herself. _One day at most. He needs help._

'Can you stand?’ she asked. He nodded, reaching with his right hand for her arm. Despite his determination, however, all he could manage was to crawl slowly up the slope. At the top, the wooden pier planks provided support for him to haul himself to his feet, with her aid. She took his left arm and started to swing it over her shoulder to help him to her car. He groaned loudly, sucking air through his teeth.

‘God, I’m sorry…look, hang on to this; I’ll be right back.’ He looked ready to collapse; he'd never make it to the car. She left him clinging to the pier and brought the car closer. She leaned him against it and opened the door. Groaning, he fell into the seat; she lifted his legs in for him. As she brought the seatbelt around his body to latch it, she got a better look at his face in the ceiling lamp of the car. _He looked so damned familiar; why?_ He made no protest as she searched his pockets. Nothing. Something at his neck gleamed in the light. She pulled his wet hair back and found a ball chain necklace; attached to it was a worn military-style dog tag. She read the name, not believing it. How could it be, after so many years and an ocean separating that time and place…how was this humanly possible? _What the hell was this, Karma?!_ She shook her head in astonishment.

‘Please,’ he said faintly. ‘Don't take me to the hospital...’ he broke off, staring at her. ‘You…wait…no, I don’t…I…I know you...don't I?’

She dodged his question. ‘Just where do you expect me to take you? You're injured.'

'Just not the damned hospital,' he growled menacingly before he passed out.

'So be it. You want it, you got it.’ She sighed. ‘I’m taking a big chance here but I'll do as you say. I owe you one.’

~~~~~

Beckett drove Eliot back to her home. He came to momentarily and she managed to get him into the house. They made it as far as the living room floor before he simply collapsed, bringing her down with him. The deep pile of the carpet cushioned their fall.

_This is a bad idea,_ she thought to herself. _A damned bad idea..._

She maneuvered out from under him, fetched her physician's bag, slipped on latex gloves and, despite her misgivings, set about examining him. She pulled off the wet leather jacket, no easy task. With scissors she slit the wool shirt that had probably kept him from freezing and the second shirt right up the front. The first thing she saw was an oozing bullet wound in his left shoulder. Very close to the third rib, it may have only grazed the bone which felt intact. Another wound, in the bicep. This one would need some minor surgery; the bullet had grazed, causing a deep rip instead of a hole. She continued stripping him. High on his right thigh, a bullet had scored all the way through, luckily missing the femur.

‘Flesh wounds, Eliot,’ she said to the still form. ‘We’re not in such bad shape, after all. That is, if I can save your ass.’

He needed blood. She had everything else; instruments and supplies. She had saline. She'd have to get some plasma. Eliot lay naked on the carpet, feet elevated by pillows. Beckett covered him with several blankets while she continued treatment. She inserted needles into his left hand and arm. A tube inserted into his bladder drained urine. She strapped a blood pressure cuff to his right arm. With her stethoscope she checked his vitals. His pulse was weak and rapid; BP was low. All the while she worked on him she talked to herself. _God, you’ve done some asinine things in your life but this has to take the cake, girl. What the hell is he doing in London? Who shot him...and why? What was he into? Had to be something pretty bad if they dumped him in the river…and how in holy hell had it come about that he washed up practically at your doorstep?_ That was the strangest of all.

She removed the two bullets, cleaned and repaired all four wounds and bandaged them.

‘Those are the only clean parts of you, Eliot Spencer,’ she said to the still form, ‘but I can’t haul your ass into a bathtub right now – or even into a bed. We’ll worry about that later – right now I have to get you some blood. Type O Neg. Good old dog tag.’

She injected morphine and demerol. He’d be all right until she got back from the blood bank. She hoped.


	7. A Surprise for Eliot

When Beckett returned, Eliot was conscious if not fully alert, curled into a fetal position, shivering under his blankets. She stored the blood in the refrigerator and returned to her patient.

‘Let’s get you into bed where you belong.’ She clamped his tubes, got him to his feet and down the hall. Once in her bed, she covered him with a duvet, an extra blanket, and turned up the heat. She hung the first 450ml unit of blood to replace his depleted supply. _The Thames flows red with the blood of Eliot Spencer_ , she thought to herself. It would eventually take three units to get his blood level back to normal.

Even with the room warm, Eliot continued to shiver. Beckett added a blanket, divested herself of her clothing, got into bed with him and warmed him with her body heat. After a while, he relaxed and settled into a deep sleep. Beckett, exhausted; lulled by warmth, also fell asleep.

Eliot awoke late the next morning, disoriented and completely baffled by his surroundings. _What in hell had he gone and done? The stewardess…no…not her…this woman's hair was darker...SOME woman lay close beside him, her arm over his belly. This strange bed…this room... What the hell...?_ The minute he moved, pain shot through his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he saw above him two plastic bags: one clear, one red; he traced their tubes to the needles in his arms. He looked from them to his heavily bandaged shoulder. It all came back: Desmond Noonan; the hitmen he’d hired to take out Eliot Spencer; the fight; the gunshots; the river. Being colder than he ever thought he could be.

_Well, maybe now they’d let him alone. They thought he was dead._

_Damned near was._

Vaguely, he recalled somebody coming to his rescue. _Hadn’t it been a woman? This woman? OK, enough speculation; time to get some answers._ His unknown bed companion still slept soundly. His uninjured right arm was trapped between them and by the feel of things, nobody had anything on. He came up on his right elbow, wincing. The leg wound screamed a very painful reminder of just how many times he’d been shot.

Awakened by his movements, Beckett lifted her head. She and Eliot regarded each other for a moment, he with wide-eyed surprise and she with barely concealed mirth.

‘You were cold,’ she said, as if that explained everything.

‘You...you’re the...you're the lady...at the pier...aren’t you? Didn’t you say you were a doctor?’

‘Right you are, Sherlock. Lie back down. I’ll be right back.’

She reached down and grabbed up a robe lying on the floor. Skillfully, she pulled it on without exposing herself and left the room.

Eliot lay back and ran his fingers through his hair, snagging a waterlogged twig. He looked myopically at it and threw it on the floor. Proof that this wasn’t some wild, dark, drunken dream. He'd seen that woman before; he was sure of it, and not at the pier. _Where?_ It was bugging the hell out of him. He shifted, trying to ease the shooting pains, but with a wrecked left shoulder and punctured right leg he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

Presently the woman returned, bearing a tray. She set it down on the table. Eliot stared at her, scowling.

‘Toast and chicken broth for you – sorry, no beer. Not good for you right now. Anyway, we don’t have Bud Light in London, and that's your brand.’

She helped him sit up with pillows behind his back and set the tray across his lap. ‘Eat slowly, but eat as much as you can.’

He complied. Maybe with food in his stomach he could think straight. He got most of the soup down and bit into the toast. ‘How’d you… _who in hell are you?'_

‘I told you, I’m a doctor…in this case, I’m YOUR doctor, since you’re too fucking bull-headed to go in for treatment. Anybody else in your condition would be in the ICU right now. Not you. No, Mr. Indestructible _won't have that._ Parker was right about you. So…I did the best I could with what I had.’

Eliot finished the last of his soup and shook his head in frustration. ‘Par… _how in the hell do you know Parker?’_

Then it dawned on him. She looked familiar because she favored Parker. She had always favored Parker. The hair had darkened over the years but the pixie face was practically the same, just older. This was _Laura. His Laura._ She had gone to London. This _was_ London. Grown up, different somehow. A doctor?!

'Laura,' he said aloud. His wide eyes registered complete astonishment.

She nodded. ‘I know. Real kick in the head, ain't it. Look, I can see a million questions in your face but now you’re going to get a pain shot and go back to sleep. Plenty of time for questions later.’

The childish air of vulnerability had utterly vanished. She had an authoritative, commanding presence now. He rather liked it. She must have made a good life for herself here. She must be in her mid-thirties by now. She had been only sixteen years old the last time he saw her, just a child in need of care. Now she was a - a _woman._ Hell, even his thoughts were stuttering.

‘First I need a favor, ok, Laura?’ he asked as she took the tray from his lap and prepared a hypo.

She turned the covers back and swabbed for the injection. ‘I prefer Beckett. Everyone calls me Beckett now. Laura…well, she’s someone else. I kind of left her behind. But I guess I do owe you a favor or two, huh?’

‘Guess so.’ He winced as the needle went into his hip.

‘So…what’s the favor,’ she said to her recalcitrant patient, holding the steel hypo with the needle turned up. He’d faced down many an opponent and beat the living crap out of them, but this small woman with that big needle hovering over him was somehow…intimidating.

‘Call Nate for me, willya? The whole team’s in London, at Sophie’s aunt’s house. I forgot her name; number’s in my phone. In fact, the phone'll track me, so they'll...’

‘I didn’t find a phone on you. But don't worry, I have that number. They found out about Emily, didn’t they?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said groggily. With something in his stomach and whatever was in that shot coursing through his veins, he felt better than he had in years.

‘Too bad about her. I read about it in the obits. I hadn’t seen her in several years. As soon as I got out of high school I got married and left. We really didn’t get along all that well that last year. I wanted to do _my_ thing, she wanted me to do _her_ thing.’

‘Sorry…’

‘Don't be sorry. My thing turned out better, don't you think?’

He smiled at her and closed his eyes. He was soon softly snoring.

‘Good to see you again, Eliot,’ she whispered.


	8. Start Packing

Hardison, Parker, and Sophie sat around the dining room table, frantic with worry about what had happened to their Hitter. Nate was on the phone in the other room. Parker was taking it hard; Alec was trying in vain to comfort her. ‘He’ll turn up, girl. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up…’

‘You’re right about that, Hardison. He _did_ turn up,’ Nate said.

They couldn’t read his face.

‘Dead?’ Sophie cried out. ‘Oh, _not dead, is he?’_

‘No, but damn near it. Somebody put out a hit on him.’

‘Who?’ asked Hardison.

‘The police are checking into it. Which brings me to another matter.’

‘Wait, tell us about Eliot!’ Parker insisted.

‘Some doctor fished him out of the Thames. Almost literally. He’s staying with her. She was on the phone just now.'

Hardison raised his eyebrows. ‘Her?'

'You know Eliot.'

'Female doctor, hospitals... Yeah, Nate, we know Eliot.'

'He was shot up pretty bad. Doctor says he’s doing as well as can be expected. Has to mend, but…he’ll be fine in time. Now…I've reported him found and as far as the locals are concerned, he's been with a call girl all this time. You know it’s best we fly under the radar. Well, we set that radar humming a bit when we filed a missing person’s report using his real name. When the locals couldn't find him right away they stepped up the procedure. Got Interpol involved. You know what that means.'

'Sterling,' Sophie said with loathing.

'Yep. Means it's best if we leave the country.'

'Leave Eliot?' cried Parker.

'Eliot will follow when he’s able. For now, this doctor, her name's Beckett, has agreed to keep him under wraps, as it were. She's working _with_ us. I gotta tell ya, gang, we've had allies before, but not like this one. She practically told _me_ what to do. Hardison can fix him up with a new identity and get him out of the country after he's recovered enough to come home.'

The Hacker, Grifter and Thief looked at each other, digesting this new turn of events. There was no other alternative. They'd have to leave their Hitter behind.

'Okay, Nate.'

'So...like I told you a few days ago...start packing.'


	9. What the Hell is Happening?

Eliot next awoke two days later, aching all over. Even the parts of him not riddled with bullets hurt. He stared at the ceiling, willing the pain away, wanting nothing so much as an ice cold beer.

Beckett’s gentle knock sounded; she cracked open the door. Although Eliot said nothing, one look at his tensed face told her the story.

‘Be right back, Eliot.’

He was loathe to admit it but he welcomed the shot. ‘What day is it?’

‘It’s Tuesday. You were shot late Friday night. I’ve kept you drugged pretty much this whole time.’

‘Damn shame I wasn’t awake to enjoy it.’

Beckett, smiling, busied herself removing his IV lines, weaning him away from what little life support she had been able to provide.

‘Wait,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘Nate…you called Nate, right?’

‘Sure did.’

‘What’d you tell him?’

‘Thought it best to keep it simple; just basic facts. You got hurt, you’re recuperating under my protection, you’ll be home soon... Love, Eliot.’

‘There’s more to it than what you’re telling me.’

‘You’ll get film-at-eleven eventually. For now, just concentrate on mending.’

‘Is the team still in London?’

‘Nope, they went back Stateside; said they’d explain later.’

Eliot, groaning, sat up in bed. He didn’t like not having the whole picture, but he sensed everything was more or less under control. He sighed, running the fingers of his right hand through his hair. No way could he move the left arm yet. To hell with it; she’s right, I gotta mend first. Something pinched; he shifted his position and felt discomfort that wasn't the leg wound. He lifted the covers. That damned tube was gonna have to go.

'Feel up to moving around? You need to.'

'Just like all doctors…you get shot up, you fucking gotta climb K2 the next day,' he said, scowling.

'Yep. Better for you, believe me. But you know, it's hardly the next day and a man in your condition is lucky to be alive.'

'Huh,' he said. 'Listen, as long as you’re disconnecting me here, can you, uh…'

'What?'

'Can you take this damn thing outta me?'

'If you think you can make it to the bathroom; it’s down at the end of the hall.'

'I can make it,' he insisted gruffly.

'OK,' she said, laughing. 'Let’s take some blood and get you fed, then I’ll take it out. You have another dose of antibiotic coming to you. You’ll be on that for a few days. Also, I want to check those stitches.’

'Sounds kinda familiar don’t it,' he said, remembering another time, when she was the patient and he the medic.

'Sure does. Want to see your handiwork?'

He nodded.

She opened her shirt, unabashedly revealing herself to him, pointing to the scars left by a knife so many years ago.

'You do good stitches; you really have to look to see them.’ she told him. ‘My husband wanted to know where I got those scars. I never could tell him. I think he thought I was once a hard-ass biker chick or something. Lent some zing to my legend.' She buttoned her shirt and tucked it in.

Eliot was suddenly apprehensive. 'Your...your husband? You got married? Is he here?'

'Yes, I got married, you don’t remember me telling you? And hell no, he’s not here; I divorced his ass several years ago. He wanted to run things, I wanted to run things…we didn’t mesh. Never was in love with him anyway. I kept his name because I liked it. Hey…speaking of names, I bet they never told you...'

'Told me what?'

'You remember naming me Laura?'

'Yeah…yeah I do. Huh. Talk about being obstinate…I remember...there was no way in hell I was gonna get you to tell me your name…so I just...I gave you one.'

'Yeah, well guess what.'

He waited, eyebrows raised.

'That really _was_ my real name. In fact, it was Laura Matheson, then Laura Jackson, then – well, whatever in hell the next foster family name happened to be.'

'Huh. Weird.'

'Thought you'd appreciate that.'

Beckett cinched a rubber tube around his arm. He started to protest but decided against it. He hated having medical procedures done on him despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that he himself was a trained medic. He didn't like to appear vulnerable. Obligingly, he pumped his fist. Beckett expertly slid the large bore needle in and drew two vials. She sealed and labeled them. A small pressure bandage went over the hole and she released the tourniquet.

‘Put blood in, take blood out…I feel like a goddamned ATM.’

She laughed. 'Now that's done, I'll feed you. Let's not overload, though. Scrambled and toast. Black coffee. Right?'

'You remembered,' he said, just the trace of a smile flickering cross his features.

~~~~~

About an hour later, Beckett returned, properly gloved. He felt some embarrassment but it had to be done; she was a doctor, after all. He lay back with his good arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

'I’m using a topical anesthetic, but it still might hurt a little. Breathe through it.'

He nodded. Her touch was gentle, professional, efficient. He held his breath, tensed, anticipating.

'Smell your hair,' she said, in an effort to distract him.

He brought a shoulder-length strand around to his nose. It smelled like a chlorinated chemical solution. He made a face.

'Dry shampoo…not so good, huh? Did the best I could; your hair was a mess…river water, leaves, twigs... You’ll get a bed bath soon and you’ll feel better. Never thought I'd be a nurse,' she chuckled.

'But you…' he said between gritted teeth as the tube was being extracted, 'you became a doctor…'

'Yep, Laura P. Beckett, MD, PA, at your service. Put that college money you gave me to good use. I gotta admit, even without that, you kind of inspired me. The way you helped me that time…it was incredible. I never forgot you.'

The tube was out at last. Damn thing burned like a son of a bitch. He let out the breath he’d been holding.

She examined the thigh wounds, entry and exit. The drainage tube was gonna have to stay there another day or two. The shoulder and arm wounds looked good. She placed fresh dressings and checked his vitals.

'Short of being shot to hell, you’re pretty healthy. I’ve been using the lab at the hospital to check your results. No sign of infection. Blood volume normal.'

'Thanks...Beckett.'

She sat down beside him. Something was on her mind. Most women he had known would have made him guess it. He sensed she wasn’t going to be like that.

‘Like I said, Eliot…I never forgot you. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten _me_. Ten years. Not a word.’

_Damn._ He rose up on one elbow, frowning at her. 'Didn’t I tell you back then I was following another road? The kind that nearly got me killed the other day. That kind of thing, Laur…Beckett… Dammit, _it’s what I do._ Hell, I didn’t forget you. I just… Look, you’d been through something horrific. Your whole life had been…horrific…you needed a fresh start. Ok, so we gave you that. I figured it was best to let you leave it all behind, which it looks like you’ve done. Besides, back then…you were so damned young...'

Then she said something that knocked the wind out of his sail.

'Young? Sure I was. Hell, I was _jailbait._ Nobody had to tell me that. But, Eliot...I know you never knew this, but I was in love with you from the moment I heard you singing to me. Do you remember that song?'

His throat tightened up as he nodded.

'I don’t know what strange power brought us together after so long, Eliot Spencer: fate…karma…or just plain dumb luck. Who knows, maybe it was some magic in that old song. ‘As the tracer glides on its graceful arc, send a little prayer out to you across the falling dark,’ she softly recited.

Very slowly and very gently, she leaned toward him. Not sure what to do, Eliot remained motionless. With her fingers gentle upon his cheek she pressed her lips to his, kissing him tenderly. She touched her forehead to his for a long moment, sighed, got up and left the room.

He sat quietly for a long while, just looking out the window. Thinking. Feeling. Wondering. _What the hell was happening?_


	10. A Spark Ignites

It was past four o'clock in the afternoon in Portland. Nate was alone in his apartment, plastering a bagel with the last of Eliot's homemade cream cheese and garlic sauce. A slice of turkey fresh out of the package, one of tomato and a bit of dill Havarti completed the dinner masterpiece. He'd pass on the onion; Sophie was gonna have a hard enough time with the garlic. Besides, Eliot wasn't here to scold him for leaving out vital ingredients.

_Wish he was,_ Nate thought.

The phone rang. Nate threw back a large swallow of scotch before he answered it.

'Ahem...yeah.'

'Hiya, Nate.'

_'Eliot!'_

'How ya doin'?'

'Hey, the question is, how are _you_ doing?'

Eliot, holding the phone in his right hand, glanced down at his battered left shoulder. 'Been better.'

'I imagine so. You still in Dr. Beckett's care?'

'Yeah, she's been great. She told me she called you.'

'So what's up...why are you calling at...' Nate glanced blearily at his watch and did a quick calculation. '...half past midnight?'

'Just touching base. Man, you'll never believe... never mind, that's not why I called. Listen, Nate...the doc says you called the London police.'

'We found what was left of your phone…reported you missing. Don't worry about it. As soon as Beckett called we told them you were shacked up with a hooker.'

'Nice save,' said Eliot.

'We thought it appropriate.'

'So Beckett says I gotta lay low for a while; why is that?'

'Yeah, well, you know how Interpol can weave its sticky fingers into an international disappearance case so to keep Sterling out of our hair we came back without you. Listen, Eliot, who put a hit out on you?'

'Couple of goons hired by a man named Noonan - Desmond Noonan. Mob boss based in Manchester.'

'Any, uh, any kin to _Dominic_ Noonan?'

'His brother.'

'He was one of Moreau's hits, wasn't he? I seem to remember…' Nate went silent on the line for a minute; it didn't take him long to connect the dots. 'Eliot...are you saying you killed Dominic Noonan?'

'Uh huh.'

'Hell, it's been years. Why did Desmond take so long to come after you?'

'Thought I made it hard for him to find me but apparently not hard enough. Listen, Nate, it doesn't matter; as far as he's concerned I'm dead.'

'Well... _I,_ for one, think he's dead. In fact I don't think, I _know.'_

'What're you saying? Desmond's dead?'

'Yep.'

'What went down?'

'Well, this is what I got from the London police,' said Nate. 'He was last seen drinking in a pub near Merseybank Avenue. He had plenty of his own enemies. He was stabbed; died in the ambulance on the way to the Manchester Royal Infirmary.'

'Huh.'

‘Listen, Eliot, Hardison's working on the documentation you'll need to travel, since you're dead. But you're not dead because the guy who wanted you dead is dead. And don’t forget we're playing hide-and-seek with Sterling.'

'Nate, are you drunk?'

'Gettin' there. How long till you're well enough to travel?

'Couple of weeks, maybe more.'

'Well, keep us posted.'

'Yeah.'

'Eliot?'

'Yeah.'

‘Just how many jobs did you do for Moreau?’

‘Dammit, Nate...’

‘I mean, something like this could happen again...’

‘Let's not buy more trouble than we can handle right now, ok? Gotta go - talk to you later.’

~~~~~

A spark had ignited.

He felt it and he knew she felt it; in fact, she had lit the match…but she backed off; retreating behind a wall of reticence. She was merely his doctor, matter-of-factly managing his care and his pain. He understood. She was allowing him time to figure out what...or if...he felt anything for her.

He did; once he felt a strong attachment to Laura, in much the way of an older brother or even father, and it complicated the hell out of the way he felt about Beckett now. He had seen her at her worst and she had seen him at his worst, yet each had provided the other with devotion, comfort and the most intimate care. They had somehow built the foundation for a relationship whether they wanted to or not.

Still, when he thought about it, Eliot had never been one for long term attachments to anyone. Women had waltzed into and out of his life like partners at a stag dance. Besides, the team back in Portland was counting on him; he had to get better, get off his ass and get back to work.

So why didn't he go ahead and leave? He was still recovering, to be sure, sore as hell; he was gonna have to work to get the left arm back but he was well enough to ride a wheelchair to the plane. Any doctor could oversee his recovery. Hardison had everything ready.

Yet each day he remained.

He couldn't bring himself to leave her.

~~~~~

'Eliot, sit down. You're driving me insane.'

'How?'

'Pacing back and forth! I mean, getting up and moving around is good; it's been two weeks now, but for the last few days you've worn a hole in the rug.'

‘Yeah, well…I feel like a caged tiger. Can’t help it.’ He stopped short. 'Beckett...you, uh...exactly where were you going when you found me?'

'Huh?'

'You heard me, you were at the marina, obviously going somewhere,' he said, jabbing his finger in mid-air, 'and I interrupted whatever plans you had. So what were they?'

'Just a vacation...six weeks leave...I have a boat there and I'd planned a week out fishing.'

He looked crestfallen. 'Damn, Beckett...'

'Hey, you're not pulling that crap on me. What's more important, a fishing trip or your life, huh?!'

'Well...' He grinned at her. 'When you put it like that...'

'Damn straight.'

'So…what's stopping you now?'

She gestured to his still-bandaged wounds; her voice dripping derisive sarcasm. 'Duh.'

'Listen, Beckett, you...I...I'm fine. C'mon. Show me the boat. At least...at least let me see it. I mean, the last time I was at the pier, it was too goddamned dark to see anything.'

She burst out laughing.

'Then...see, then...,’ he continued, ‘I'll talk you into that fishing trip. They say being on the water has healing powers. Y'know, being a doctor and all, you oughta know that already...'

‘April in England, Eliot, it’s still a little chilly on the water for somebody in your condition,’ she said seriously.

‘I’ll be fine as long as I’m on the water and not in it,’ he replied, deadpan.

‘Well, there’s that…’

There was a long pause. Eliot smiled his sweetest. No woman he’d met yet could resist that.

She sighed. 'Fuck. All right, all right, we'll go fishing. There's just one obstacle.'

He looked at her questioningly.

'Look down, Eliot.'

He'd forgotten. All he had to wear was a large towel. A pink one. He didn't like it. He ran his fingers through his hair.

'Your clothes were full of holes and all ripped up,' Beckett reminded him. 'I put them in the incinerator. Shame about your jacket - that was a nice one.'

He had an idea. 'Yeah, well... Lemme do something first. I'll need your computer and access to your bank; that is, if you trust me.'

‘Don’t be an ass.’


	11. The Boat Trip

_{FLASHBACK}_

The phone rang and rang. He was just about to end the call when the Hacker picked up.

‘Hiya, Hardison.’

‘Dude. Is this who I think it is?’

Hardison sounded asleep and alert all at the same time. How did he do that? ‘Yep, I’m back from the dead. Sorry about the time zone; forgot you’d be asleep.’

‘How y’feelin’, man?’

‘Doin’ great, doin’ great; listen, I talked to Nate and I’m gonna fill you guys in on everything later; I got news that’ll knock your fuckin’ socks off. But for now I need a favor. I actually need your geeky magic here. This is what I want you to do…as soon as haul your ass out of bed, that is…’

Eliot lined it out. Hardison agreed to transfer funds, converted to Euros, from Eliot's substantial account to Beckett's.

‘That all, man?’

‘You’re a lifesaver, buddy…just as much as this lady is. Like I said, I’ll fill ya’ll in later. Go back to sleep.’

‘Keep in touch, man,’ Hardison said, yawning. He hung up. _Wait…did he just say lady?_

_{END FLASHBACK}_

'You're not using your own money,' Eliot stated emphatically. ‘I have plenty; some is in your account.’

'Whatever you say. Want me to shop for you?'

'Yeah, I'll admit I'm not up to traipsing around department stores.' He made a face at the thought. 'I'll make a list and give you the sizes.'

Eliot sat down gingerly at the dining room table and began to write. Beckett smiled at him and brought him a cup of coffee.

‘I’ll say this for you,’ she said, glancing over his list, ‘you go for comfort. You’re not buying much.’

‘Just need a few things until I get back to Portland.’

‘Yeah. Won’t be long, will it, before it’s back to work for you.’

Eliot looked at her.

‘Just thinking I’ll miss you, is all,’ she said, quietly.

~~~~~

Beckett didn't disappoint. She returned late that afternoon with bags filled with a sweater, shirts, jeans, a wool cap, boots, a belt, gloves, underwear and a jacket very much like the one he'd lost. As a special surprise, after learning that he liked to play, she bought him a guitar.

'Play it on the boat at night to entertain me...when the fish aren't biting,' she ordered. He grinned.

Going outside for the first time in nearly three weeks felt fine. Eliot breathed in the cool spring air as he walked slowly to the car. Beckett had loaded the boot with everything they needed, refusing his help. She got in and started the engine.

'You shouldn't have to do all that alone,' he said, gruffly.

'Hey, you’re doing good to carry yourself around, Eliot Spencer.' Beckett backed the car out of the driveway and headed for the marina. ‘So shut up.’

Beckett had called ahead and the boat was waiting, ready for them. Eliot carefully stepped onto the deck and gallantly lent her a helping hand boarding although he himself had to lean on the gunwale for support. She gave him a short tour of her boat, a 36' Chris Craft Twin Diesel; just big enough for open water and cozy enough for two. The deck had built-in, padded couches lining the port and starboard sides. A canopy over two bucket seats had a skylight and a window; between the seats, a narrow door led below deck. Down four steps, the bow area featured a triangular dining area with a line of small glass windows above the waterline. There was a small but adequate galley, head, and a sleeper with two beds; a large and a smaller one. The boat was fully stocked and fueled with extra fuel stored aft. The weather was predicted to be perfect.

The dock master transferred the things from her car for her, threw off the lines and waved them off. Beckett thanked him, started the big engines and turned away from the marina. They were on their way.

'How far out you plan on going?' asked Eliot, watching Beckett handle the joystick and wheel. His long hair whipped behind him as the boat picked up speed, plowing along the river several kilometers toward the wide mouth where the banks on each side were barely visible. The boat's GPS screen indicated their location; their ultimate destination was 10km past Shoeburyness at Southend-on-Sea.

'Quite a ways,’ she said. ‘Technically, we’ll be in the North Sea. Plenty of water, plenty of privacy. Good fishing.'

Eliot cleared his throat. 'Just...uh...just why would you need privacy for fishing?'

She merely grinned at him.

~~~~~

Eliot, though still recuperating, felt like a new man, having fun for the first time in more years than he cared to remember. He fished a little, but mostly lounged in the sun on the padded benches that lined the deck, sleeping, reading, or watching Beckett gleefully pull brown trout, perch and flounder from the waters. She cleaned them in the specially designed sink at the back of the boat then watched Eliot expertly prepare them in the small galley, along with delicious salads and pastas, accompanied by white wines. One memorable night she found him slicing mushrooms and chopping spinach leaves. He paused in the middle of his work and opened the small refrigerator. ‘Hey, Beckett - did we pick up any feta?’

‘I think there’s some in there. What on earth are you making?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ he grinned.

‘Why don’t you sit at the table to do that?’

‘Leg hurts less when I stand. Anyway, I’m ok. Yeah, there it is,’ he said. He brought the package of cheese to the cutting board. ‘Just need a tablespoon.’ He crumbled the cheese into a small bowl.

‘Now, watch as I fillet this flounder.’ Eliot flipped the knife and literally made it dance through the fish.

She watched in admiration. ‘Where’d you learn to slice-and-dice like that?’

‘A man named Toby Heath. When I got out of the army the only thing I knew how to do was wetwork. Know what that is?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Eliot, I’m a doctor. I’m not stupid.’

‘Uh, yeah, ok, sorry. Anyway, Toby kind of took me under his wing. He’s a master chef with a human side. Believe me, you’d never see him doing a show like Hell’s Kitchen. Toby doesn’t scream. He _teaches._ Anyway,’ he continued, ‘he taught me to cook. He was my mentor. The team took him as a project a few years back; got him out of a jam. He’s still helping kids; I don’t know how many truly good chefs he’s turned out over the years. A lot.’

‘Including one named Eliot? The one who surprises me by his many talents? Musician, singer, soldier, chef…you’re a team unto yourself, did you know that?’

He shrugged, smiling.

‘Now what?’

‘Ok, oven’s at 350 – that’s 175C for you, by the way…mushrooms have been on for about 5 minutes. We add the spinach…stir about 2 minutes…till it, you know, wilts a little…drain it…sprinkle the feta and stir it in.’

‘What are you going to do with the fish?’

‘Watch…and learn.’ Eliot laid out the four flounder fillets, placing the spinach mixture onto the wide end. He rolled each filet around the mixture and pinned it with a   
toothpick.

‘Now we bake it. Hand me the foil.’ He covered the fillets lightly with foil and popped them in the oven.

‘Dinner in 20. I’ll let you do the salad.’

‘Impressive.’

‘Wait’ll you taste it.’


	12. The Last Night

Eliot was getting to know this woman in a whole new way and enjoying every minute of it. Evenings were spent anchored in place, lying on deck under the stars. Eliot sang and played for her, or they just sat and talked, far into the night. They eventually retired to the sleeper where she took the smaller bed and he the larger one.

The day would soon come when he'd return to Portland and to his job, which was protecting the team. He'd never abandon them; he'd devoted his life to their cause, but he'd always be the odd man out...except, he though wryly, for the occasional one night stand. That left him cold. It had always left him cold. While the team had become his family he'd never had someone of his very own. Not until now. He felt it now. Apparently, so did she.

It was the last night; they had agreed to start home the next day. Weather conditions were no longer optimal and Beckett was due back at the hospital the next week. Beckett brought Eliot a beer and sat beside him sipping wine. Billions of stars hung overhead. There was no moon. The water lapped at the sides of the boat.

'Peaceful, isn't it? Quiet...dark...'

He nodded. A breeze came up, blowing his hair across his face. 'Blinding,' he said. She laughed softly.

'I can fix that.'

He felt her small fingers push the dark strands back off his face. Her eyes met his. Her finger traced the scar on the left side of his lip. He didn't move a muscle when she leaned in to touch her lips to it. She glanced up at him and he smiled, giving her permission, encouraging her. She kissed him softly; he returned the kisses just as softly, following her lead.

Suddenly, she got to her feet and looked down at him. 'Eliot?'

'Yeah?'

'How do you feel?'

He grinned. 'Good enough for what you have in mind.' He pushed himself up off the cushion, tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her close. He kissed her passionately.

'Just...look, take it easy, ok? You're not 100% yet.'

'That's why I'm gonna let you handle it this first time,' he grinned.

'Deal.' She led him down below decks. There would be no sleeping on the small bed this night.

~~~~~

Beckett was already up, preparing breakfast for their last day; the aromas of bacon and coffee permeated the boat. No better way to wake up, Eliot thought.

He remained in bed, a wave of contentment and happiness he wasn’t used to feeling washing over him. He knew now what he wanted…and he had to ask her. What would be her answer? His mind ran scenarios; trying to imagine what might be said once he brought up the subject:

_Beckett...do you love me?_

_Yes_ , is what he hoped she'd say... 

_Do you believe I love you?_

_Yes,_ is what he was pretty sure she'd say... 

_Then will you go back with me?_

_To Portland?_

_Yeah, I have to go back. Listen, just hear me out. You can bring the boat, there’s lots of good fishing, and I'm thinking the team could use a doctor. What's holding you here? Nothing._

_Nothing but my practice, Eliot. You're forgetting that._

_So, build one in Portland. You must be a pretty good doctor if you can save a man half drowned and shot to hell all by yourself._

Her expression would change; he knew it. She’d probably say something like, _Eliot, you're asking me to uproot my whole life. To go back to a place I forgot a long time ago; that I don't want to remember. And in case you forgot, the reason I left Emily was because she was trying to run my life. My husband - his name was Bill – he came along for Round Two of that battle. You're not gonna to tell me it's Round Three now, are you?_

Something along those lines. He’d come back with, _No. It's not gonna be like that._ I’m _not gonna be like that. Don’t you think what we have is too precious to lose over a matter of geography? Look, Beckett...I...I've been alone pretty much all the time for so many years...this...this whole thing turned out to be one of those cosmic accidents...call it a sublime event...something arranged by the gods so two people could be happy._

Hell, she'd think he was insane talking like that. She was a woman with her own mind. She’d say no.

He ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

‘Eliot,’ she called, breaking his reverie.

‘Coming.’ A quick visit to the head to freshen up and he’d sit down at the triangular shaped table…across from the woman he’d decided he couldn’t live without…for the last time.

He stared at his own reflection in the mirror. Maybe the stars they’d gazed at last night did indeed handle their destinies. Who knew? There was no other way to explain how they had ended up together after so long and so far apart; not that he wanted to or needed to explain it; the end result was good enough for him. What could he say to convince her to uproot her life and follow him? She could practice medicine anywhere. He didn’t have her options. His job was the team and the team was in Portland. He had no other choice.

What in hell was he going to say to her? How could he convince her? What if she refused? How could he leave her? Eliot ran his fingers through his hair one last time. He had stepped into many a fight far less nervous than he was right now.

‘Good morning,’ she said, kissing him. He enveloped her in an embrace, holding it for several seconds, saying nothing. She looked at him curiously as he poured coffee for the two of them and placed the steaming cups on the table.

‘You’re ok, aren’t you? I didn’t kill you last night, did I?’

‘Gonna take a lot more than that, Beckett,’ he said, smiling.

Eliot sipped his coffee, watching Beckett set out jam, salt, pepper, butter and flatware. Such mundane things on such a significant day. _It’s like we’ve been together our whole lives…like this is the thousandth of ten thousand mornings..._

Beckett set his plate before him. She brought her own and took a seat across from him. ‘Salt?’ she asked, passing it to him. When he didn’t take it or make a reply, she looked at him with concern. He was just gazing at her, his heart in his eyes.

‘Eliot?’

He took a deep breath and dove in the water without checking the depth. ‘Beckett…I need you to come be with me in Portland.’

‘OK,’ she said without a moment’s hesitation.

 

Next wave coming in like an ocean roar  
Won't you take my hand darling on that old dance floor  
And we can twist and shout, do the turtle dove  
Cause you're the one I love…the one I love. 

 

THE END  
  
  
Taking ‘Hurt-Comfort’ to the max, I’ve placed both parties in both roles. I love the character of Eliot Spencer; having killed him in another fic, I wanted him to find happiness in his life. This bit of fluff was easier to write than Leverage plot devices, which are devilishly difficult. This fic might have some glaring plotholes; sorry. I’ll try to do better next go-round.  
Soquilii


End file.
